A TERRIFIC STRUGGLE
At sight of the crouching brute, Bomba shouted with all his might.
The beast turned at the shout, fangs bared and eyes flashing with
rage, to meet the newcomer. Then, with its tail lashing its flanks, it
advanced toward the river bank.
At the same moment a roar came from within the cabin. And with the roar
was blended the scream of a woman in mortal terror.
As the canoe approached the bank, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string,
drew it to the head and let it go.
The haste with which he shot and the motion of the boat disturbed his
aim, so that it just grazed the animal’s head, inflicting a slight
flesh wound, but no mortal injury.
But the pain inflamed the puma’s rage, and as the canoe had now come
within a few feet of the bank, it prepared to spring.
But just as it was about to launch itself into the air a second arrow
from Bomba’s bow struck fair to its heart.
With a fearful howl the beast rolled over and over for a moment, then
straightened out and lay still.
With scarcely a second glance at his dead adversary, Bomba leaped on
the bank and started to run toward the cabin.
The hut consisted of two rooms, a larger one in the front and a much
smaller one in the rear. A flimsy door with one rope hinge broken
connected the two.
In the swift glance he sent inside as he reached the outer doorway,
Bomba saw no trace of human occupants.
What he did see was a puma, larger than the one he had slain outside,
clawing at the inner door between the two rooms and at times hurling
its huge body against the door. It was a dilapidated door at the best,
and would long since have yielded to the beast’s attack had it not been
for some barriers placed against it on the other side.
Bomba took in the situation in an instant. Pipina had seen the beasts
approaching and, taking Casson with her, had retreated to the inner
room, shut the door, and piled against it whatever furniture she could
gather in her frantic haste.
But that it was pitifully inadequate was apparent at a glance. Already
there were breaks in the door that the puma was trying to enlarge with
its claws so that it could push its body through. From the other side
of the door came the frantic screams of Pipina, seeing death so near at
hand.
In a flash Bomba fitted an arrow to his bow and let it go. It struck
the puma in the shoulder, inflicting a serious wound but not enough to
cripple it.
With a roar of rage the brute turned to meet its new enemy. With one
spring it was at the door.
The movement had been so lightning fast that Bomba had no time to shoot
again. His only salvation lay in flight.
Turning, he ran like a deer toward the river bank, hoping to regain
his canoe and push out into the stream. But even as he did so he felt
that it was hopeless. He was fleet, but the puma was fleeter. Before he
could reach the water it would be upon him.
Just then he saw out of the corner of his eye a third puma coming with
giant bounds into the clearing. Then indeed he gave himself up for lost.
He drew his knife, determined to die fighting. That he was about to die
he had no doubt.
But just as he felt the hot breath of his pursuer on his neck there was
a terrific snarling behind him and the impact of huge bodies.
He glanced behind him and his flight suddenly halted.
The two great pumas were locked in deadly combat, clawing and biting,
rolling over and over as each sought to get a grip on the other’s
throat.
It was a battle of Titans, and Bomba looked on with amazement that was
transformed into an expression of delight as he recognized the last
comer.
“Polulu!” he exclaimed. “Good Polulu! He has come to Bomba’s help.”
He circled about the combatants, seeking to get in a thrust with his
knife that might decide the battle in favor of the friendly puma. But
the fight was so fast and furious that he was as likely to wound one as
the other.
But Polulu needed no help. His weight and courage finally told. Before
long he succeeded in getting the throat hold he was seeking, and then
the end was only a matter of a few moments.
But it had been a terrible fight, and after Polulu had risen from the
body of his dead adversary he was hardly able to move. He staggered
away a few paces, and then lay down panting and exhausted.
Bomba let him rest awhile, and then went up to him and caressed the
great, shaggy head.
“Polulu is a good friend,” he said gratefully. “It is not the first
time he has saved Bomba’s life. There is no one in the jungle as big
and strong as Polulu.”
The puma tried to purr, and licked the hand that fondled him.
Their strange friendship was of long standing. It dated from the time
when Bomba had come across the puma trapped by a tree in the jungle,
that had fallen upon the animal and broken its leg. The boy of the
jungle had been stirred to pity at the creature’s distress. He had
released him from the weight that held him, bound up the broken leg,
and brought him food and drink.
By the time Polulu, as Bomba named the puma, had fully recovered, a
strong attachment had grown up between the oddly assorted pair. Their
paths often crossed in the forest, and more than once the great beast
had saved Bomba from serious danger. Now, once more, he had come to the
rescue when the lad was at the last extremity.
Leaving the animal to lick its wounds, Bomba hastened to the hut.
Its inmates had no inkling of what had happened except that for some
mysterious reason the attacks upon the door had ceased. The screams of
the woman had given place to moaning.
“Pipina! Casson!” shouted Bomba. “It is Bomba calling. The pumas are
dead. Open the door.”
Again there came a scream, but this time it was one of delight. There
was a hurried removal of the barriers on the other side of the door,
and then the old squaw came rushing out and threw her arms about
Bomba’s neck, crying and laughing in the same breath.
Behind her came Cody Casson, his steps slow and uncertain, looking so
frail that it seemed as though a zephyr would have blown him away, but
with an affectionate welcome in his faded eyes.
But he was still alive, and at that moment nothing else mattered. Dear
Casson! Good old Casson! There were tears in Bomba’s eyes as he rushed
forward and folded the old man in his embrace.
The two were roused by a shriek from Pipina, who had gone to the
doorway and now came rushing back in terror.
“There is another puma there!” she cried. “He is bigger that the
others! Quick! Let us get behind the door again.”
Bomba spoke to her soothingly and with a smile.
“He is not like the others,” he said. “He is Bomba’s friend. I killed
one puma but he killed the other. I will bring him here, and you will
see.”
But Pipina, despite Bomba’s assurances, had no desire for an
introduction to the giant puma, and shook her head decidedly, the while
she muttered prayers to her gods.
So Bomba had to be content with bringing out a haunch of meat and
sitting beside Polulu and talking to him, while the latter munched away
contentedly. Then the great beast rose, stretched himself, rubbed his
head against Bomba’s hand, and departed again for his haunts in the
jungle.
They had a great feast that night, for Pipina displayed all her skill
in making a fitting celebration of the wanderer’s return.
Bomba was almost famished, and ate greedily while Pipina beamed with
smiles at his tribute to her cooking. The lad was glad to see also that
Casson had a better appetite than he had had when Bomba had left him.
It was evident that Pipina had taken good care of him.
But though the old naturalist had improved physically, there was no
change for the better in his mental condition. Bomba studied him during
the meal and grieved to see that his mind was still weak and wandering.
Would that closed door in his mind never open?
When the meal was finished and Pipina was busy with clearing away the
food that was left and performing her simple household tasks, Bomba sat
down beside Casson and told the story of his journey.
Casson listened, holding Bomba’s brown hand affectionately in his weak,
worn one, happy beyond words to have the boy back again with him. But
it was with difficulty that the old man kept the thread of the story.
At times he would interpose vague, irrelevant questions that showed how
hard it was for him to understand.
“I saw Jojasta,” said Bomba, “but it was too late. He was dying.
A pillar of the temple fell on him. And then the earth opened and
swallowed him.”
“Jojasta? Jojasta?” repeated Casson, in a puzzled way. “Oh, yes, he was
the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. But why did you want to see
Jojasta?”
“Don’t you remember?” asked Bomba. “You told me that if I saw him he
could tell me about my father and mother.”
“Father and mother,” murmured Casson, and lapsed into silence, during
which he seemed to be cudgeling his poor, disordered brain to make it
yield up its secrets.
“He thought I was Bartow when he saw me,” went on Bomba.
At the name the old man brightened.
“Bartow!” he exclaimed. “I have heard that name.”
“Is he my father?” asked Bomba eagerly.
Casson tried desperately to remember.
“I--I don’t know,” he said at last piteously.
Bomba’s heart sank, but he tried again.
“I asked him about Laura, too,” he went on, watching Casson narrowly.
“Laura, dear sweet Laura,” murmured the old man with emotion, tears
coming to his eyes.
“Who is she? Where is she? Oh, tell me, Casson!” Bomba begged, with all
his heart in his voice.
“She is--she is--oh, why is it that I cannot remember?” exclaimed
Casson in desperation.
“Jojasta knew. Jojasta could have told you,” the old man went on after
a pause. “But you say that he is dead.”
“He is dead,” replied Bomba. “But before he died he told me that
Sobrinini----”
Then came a startling interruption.